


take, take, take

by sirenseven



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (or somewhere in between the two really), Bondage, Bottom Tim Drake, Brother/Brother Incest, Collars, Crying, Dark Damian Wayne, Gags, Hurt Tim Drake, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Reverse Robins, Size Difference, Spanking, Top Damian Wayne, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28190343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenseven/pseuds/sirenseven
Summary: Damian is more than ready to take on his father's mantle. He just has to destroy the competition.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Damian Wayne
Comments: 12
Kudos: 161
Collections: Batfam Kinkmas Exchange 2020





	take, take, take

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meaninglessblah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/gifts).



> Happy holidays! I hope you enjoy it!

“I though you would know better by now,” Damian says, frowning at the trickle of blood down Timothy’s hand. Damian had checked the wound, ensured it was not deep or dangerous. Then he left it. 

Timothy should feel the consequences of his own actions.

The arm binder had worked until now, but clearly his little brother is not as broken as Damian hoped. Tim nearly pulled an arm free, scraping up his wrist in the process. Now, Damian tightens a harness around his waist instead, Tim's hands restrained tightly on either side of his hips.

Timothy makes a soft sound of displeasure. With a custom ring gag keeping his mouth open, it’s the best he can express himself. He doesn’t fight the harness, at least. He knows he’s beaten, even if he has yet to truly accept it. That’s something.

Damian pauses after he finishes securing Timothy’s wrists, still crouched down to the boy’s level. He looks past Tim to the mirror along the far wall. The reflection of his rival, collared, gagged, and blindfolded, assuages his worries that he won’t get this right. Timothy looks small and weak in his nakedness, trembling on bruised knees for just the strain of staying upright

His position is deceptively simple. His knees and ankles are bound flat to the floor. One line of black emerges from his ass, slinking off to a wall outlet. Damian opted for a corded model, afraid batteries would die too quickly. The visual effect confirms his choice. The length of cord almost matches the leash: a taut length of rope attaching the black collar around Tim’s neck to the ceiling. 

All he has to do to stop himself from choking is stay up in his kneel. Simple enough—if he hadn’t been holding it for hours, if he wasn’t overdue on sleep and food. If he didn’t have a thick and powerful vibrator torturing him the whole time. 

The result is that Timothy is a mess. Sweat drips down his back, tears out from under the blindfold, drool out the gag and down his chin. He’s been hard for ages, but kept from any true pleasure by the ring around his cock. Damian tries to ignore his own arousal. This isn’t some libidinous frivolity for his own sake. This is a demonstration for Tim.

And the only thing to undercut all Damian’s hard work and preparation is that treacherous little dribble of blood from Tim’s escape attempt—a summarily crushed attempt, but still an attempt when Damian wants him docile.

Since Tim can’t see his displeasure, Damian sighs audibly, ensuring it will be heard over the permeating buzzing from between Tim’s thighs. Tim squares his shoulders. It’s exactly what Damian would expect from him: stubborn to the last.

“If you would just accept your purpose, I wouldn’t have to hurt you,” Damian tells him softly. Tim stays silent. Damian stands and steps away.

It’s the kind of thing his grandfather would say. The kind of thing his father would deny—have _denied_. Past tense.

That’s the entire reason Damian is here. Here in the penthouse: secure, private, and conveniently unused by the rest of his family. Here with his former replacement, who will not usurp him again. Here in the under-layers of his father’s batsuit, which fit him perfectly. Which would _not_ fit Timothy, whose eagerly expected final growth spurt never came, leaving him short and slim and _nothing_ like Batman. 

Timothy is barely a man, almost seven years younger than Damian, less trained, less competent—all of that proven by him falling into Damian’s trap, by how easily Damian has squashed his escape attempts. He couldn’t beat Damian in a fair fight. Couldn’t beat him in a test of experience. But in the public eye...

Damian approaches the work bench to one side. He is aware that he is not especially likable. Among his family he is loved, but elsewhere... Too brusque with the police. Too stiff to give victims the reassurance they need, no matter how much he tries. He has never made friends easily, in the hero community or elsewhere. The older heroes of Father’s generation act nice enough now, but Damian cannot stop thinking that they solidified their opinions of him when he was just a child, rude and entitled and League-trained, and have never bothered to reevaluate.

They _adore_ Timothy. Timothy has dozens of hero friends. Timothy endears himself to victims and law enforcement alike. Timothy has stolen even the respect of Damian’s own grandfather. And Timothy is the favored of their family: adored by young Richard, beloved by Cassandra, liked by even recalcitrant Jason. He plays chess with Alfred, is coddled by Stephanie, mentors newest recruit Barbara. And Father—

Father always liked Drake best. Damian knows he did. They shared no blood, yet Timothy was his perfect match. They fell into the same bad habits in stress; solved cases with their minds racing in lockstep while everyone else was lost; were content to just _exist_ together, quiet and peaceful in the same room.

Not Damian. Damian had been around for much longer, but Damian was a struggle. Damian drove people mad. Damian watched his father visibly force himself to calm down and not shout in rage a thousand times. Damian was entitled and rude and immoral as a child, and stubborn and chilly and untrustworthy as an adult.

Father loved him. But sometimes...sometimes he wonders if Father _liked_ him.

An irrelevant concern. Father is dead. He likes no one and nothing now. The matter of his successor is all that matters.

If Timothy challenges Damian for the cowl, he will find support from all corners. Even if Timothy truly doesn’t want it—so he claims, so Damian _disbelieves_ —his mere presence will forever undercut Damian. All those friends, the heroes who adore him, the family who loves him, and everyone who knows how preferred he was to Father—they will always wonder why it isn’t _Timothy_ in the batsuit. Why it isn’t _Timothy_ leading their teams. Why it isn’t _Timothy_ they get to work with, whenever Damian upsets them. Which he will. He always does.

Damian will make a good Batman. He learned inimitable skills with the League. He learned principles and compassion with his father. He has been training for this role his entire _life_ and he wants nothing more than to do it well.

He just has one obstacle to remove.

Damian selects a long strip of leather from the arrayed tools and returns to the center of the room. Tim shivers as his footsteps come to a stop. His hands—unmoved from their locked position, Damian is happy to note—flex and then clench into fists.

Another struggle, then. They can do that.

Damian takes another intentionally loud deep breath. “I wish you wouldn’t make me do this.”

He brings his arm down without further warning. The belt cracks against the top of Tim’s tailbone, drawing a cry and making him jolt forward. Under Damian’s watchful eye, Tim catches himself before the leash can pull too tight.

He braces up as soon as he recovers and takes the next strikes better, releasing only sharp breaths and tensely holding himself in place. Damian spreads them out between the base of his back and the top of his thighs. His blows are sharp enough to sting, hard enough to ache, but a hundred times lighter than a true torturer would deal out. He doesn’t want to _hurt_ Tim. Damian could pick a harsher place, could drive into Tim’s shoulder blades with his full strength until the boy is bleeding and screaming. If he really wanted to remove Tim from contention as quickly as possible, he could simple shatter the boy’s spine and leave him unfit for field work. That’s the kind of torture he learned with the League. The kind his father despised.

Nominally, Father despised _all_ torture, but Batman had his own methods. Less painful. Never lethal. Still terrifying. Damian watched the first Batman emerge from shadows at the most effective moments, dangle informants over ledges, force out information through fear. He applied violence like a scalpel but the fear of it like a bomb.

Usually. Sometimes...Father lost himself and violence was all he applied. He would beat information out of petty criminals with his fists, not bother with threats. terrify by demonstration instead of implication.

That’s not the kind of Batman Damian will be. The kind of Batman Damian _is_. It’s not about pain.

It’s about _humiliation_. If Timothy is going to throw tantrums, then he’s going to be spanked like a child—if a harsher sort of spanking, in deference to his stubborn will.

Damian slides around, eyeing Timothy’s front. His cock has wilted somewhat for the pain, but still strains in its ring. Damian pushes his leg between Timothy’s, nudging his cock with a knee. “You’re enjoying this,” he accuses, like that isn’t the hard-won result of his own actions. “Whore.”

Tim’s disagreement comes as a grunt. Damian snaps the belt across his nipple, turning it into a squeak.

“Take your punishment like a good boy,” he says.

Fists clenched, Tim makes no reply. Another dribble of saliva slips out of his mouth.

Damian returns to his back, takes a deep breath, and resumes his attack. He brings the belt down with a machinelike pace that betrays none of his inner fervor, careful to mark up every single patch of Timothy’s slim ass. Tim’s breaths turn to gasps, turn to whimpers. Those fists slip open, leaving fingers to dig into the meat of his own thighs until they falter at that too, limp and shaky. He almost falls half a dozen times, sags lower and lower to the very limit of his leash’s slack.

Blows blend together to the soundtrack of impacts and Damian’s pulse. It seems like no time at all before he runs out of unmarred canvas. Damian takes pause to breathe.

A second later, Tim preemptively flinches, ready for the next hit—and no less terrified when it doesn’t come.

He’s weak. Fading. _Go in for the kill_ , say Damian’s old instincts. In this case, the kill being...

On the next strike, Damian angles up, slapping across the very bottom of Tim’s ass. Across the base of the vibrator. Tim yelps and lurches forward—too far. He overbalances, line pulling tight on his throat and choking him. Tied between knees and neck, Tim thrashes, trying to recenter, hands squirming uselessly at his side. His chest contracts in choked-off sobs. The vibrator keeps buzzing away.

Damian watches warily. He will step in, stop Tim from suffocating, but only at the last possible moment.

It doesn’t come. Timothy strains, then throws himself back, nearly falling too far in the other direction. He lists to one side, breath shaky, new tears slipping out the blindfold, but he stays upright. Despite himself, Damian is forced to give the boy credit for his tenacity. He would expect no less from a man trained by his father, true heir or not.

And he’ll see it snuffed out. 

He snaps the belt across the same spot, perfectly impacting the vibrator, fucking Timothy in pantomime from two steps away. Tim sobs. Again. He rocks with each blow. Again. His slumping torso is counterbalanced by his hips; ironically, he looks for all the world like he’s pushed his ass out intentionally to beg for more. 

Tim cries out at each strike. Damian wonders how much is the pain, belt layering repeatedly over the same spot, and how much is the unwilling pleasure. It’s hardly a precise way to pump the toy, but Damian knows the vibrator he chose. Powerful, textured, thick enough that there’s no room to get away from the stimulation even for a moment. Precise or not, repeatedly jostling it inside Tim is enough.

A minute in, Tim’s head shakes in a feeble plea. Even when Damian abruptly ceases the assault, he continues, as if he hasn’t noticed the reprieve. The burning red of his ass surely keeps the pain fresh.

“Have you had enough?” Damian says. Not the first time he’s asked it in these few days. Tim used to snarl back a proud denial, before he got so worn down.

Tim shudders, head coming to a stop. There’s a tentative pause and then, to Damian’s surprise, he nods.

Damian hesitates. He’s gotten this far before. He’s seen Tim reach his limit and, in search of mercy, abandon his pride—but never quite his stubbornness. As soon as he recovers, it’s right back to fighting. But something about this, the tears drying on Tim’s face perhaps, or the way he has to pull against the collar, against his own comfort, to nod and convey his acquiescence...

“Will you be good now?” Damian asks, thumb sliding over the leather strip in his hand.

Tim nods again, small and jerky against the leash, with a soft and breathy, _uh-huh_.

“You’ll know your place?” His voice lowers with each question, not daring to disrupt the obedience he’s finally stolen. He inches closer, shifting to Tim’s side and reaching out to smooth his hair, still half expecting Tim to jerk away from the touch and thrilled when he doesn’t.

Another nod, sliding against Damian’s hand.

Damian wets his lips. His hand slips down Timothy’s cheek, dangles off his chin, lands just below the open O of Tim’s mouth. Damian teases his bottom lip, pulling it down a hint and then letting it up again. When his fingers flirt with the idea of entering, he can feel Tim’s panted breaths against their tips.

His voice is nearly a whisper when he asks, “You’ll prove it to me?”

For a moment, all Damian can hear is that panting. Damian’s hand curls against his skull, feeling every tremble that passes through the small body.

Tim nods.

Damian slides his fingers in without hesitation, over that soft lip, across the warm metal that blocks his teeth, then pressing onto Tim’s tongue. It twitches at the intrusion and tentatively wraps around. Damian shifts to see it, that tantalizing flick of pink in Tim’s forced-open mouth. He rocks his fingers ever so gently, still absently petting the boy’s hair.

“Keep going.” He slides the fingers deeper.

Tim’s mouth is held too wide to close around them, but it contracts as much as he can. His tongue swirls with more determination. A lewd slurp echoes in the room as he tries to suck; to prevent further drool, if Damian is being cynical. Consumed in the fantasy, though, he dares hope Tim is truly trying to be good. 

Damian pauses at the back of Tim’s mouth, feeling his fingers pressed up between roof and tongue, the constriction of a swallow just beyond. Genuine effort being put in to please him.

He pulls his hand back.

Tim makes a soft sound when his mouth is freed, confused as much as worried. Toys don’t need explanations, but Tim has earned the chance to prove himself. Damian doesn’t leave him in suspense for long. A moment later, he replaces his fingers with his cock.

His pulse throbs, sinking into that perfect heat. Despite Tim’s current demeanor, Damian doesn’t dare take the gag out with such fragile pieces of his anatomy in proximity, but he doesn’t need to. It’s custom-made to his size. Not too tight, perfectly hugging him so Damian’s cock slips over the sleek surface and Tim’s lips drag down the shaft. He fills Tim’s mouth in one smooth motion.

For a minute, it’s all Damian can do to stand there, one hand clenched around the belt, the other tight against the back of Tim’s head. His pulse pounds. It’s only the disparity in their heights that puts Tim’s mouth near the right level. With his head forced up, Damian still can’t quite angle all the way to his throat. Even so, just the warmth and wet and grip of his mouth...it’s perfect.

The belt thumps against hardwood flooring as Damian tosses it aside. Tim flinches—expecting, perhaps, that any sudden noise foretells pain for him. A second later, his shoulders droop with a shudder of relief, and Damian knows he’s caught on. No more pain. Not if he behaves.

Damian keeps hold of his reactions, but the sudden suction around his cock takes him off guard. 

Tim is expressing gratitude. Tim is expressing gratitude the only way he can, on his knees with a cock in his mouth, accepting the humiliation in order to better serve Damian. Maybe he is genuinely grateful; maybe he’s merely trying to butter up his captor. It truly makes no difference. Timothy can believe he’s faking it all he wants. Accepting this indignity, no matter his motivation, will still make the hurdle easier to cross the second time. And the third time, the fourth, the hundredth...

Damian tightens his hand in Tim’s hair. He slowly draws the boy back, just those few inches the lead allows. Tim loses his focus on sucking, but he keeps his lips tight.

“You’re perfect like this,” Damian murmurs, reversing the motion to pull Tim back down. He rubs a thumb lightly across the blindfold. Tim is still exhausted, trembling in overstimulation and denied release, but his tears have stopped. His face remains a mess. It really does look best from this angle—for all that Damian chooses the words to break his prey, he’s not lying. “Gorgeous. On your knees. Pleasing your betters. It suits you. This is how you should always be.”

Once again, he reaches the deepest he can get at this angle, and pulls languidly back. One hand still in Tim’s hair, Damian reaches around with the other, and unclips the leash from his collar.

Tim hesitates. Without his sight, he must not be sure he’s free. He shifts in increments, wary of rebuffing the hand in his hair or the cock in his mouth as he sinks down and tilts back, testing the limits. When he is inarguably beyond what the leash would have allowed, he sucks in a sharp breath. Damian holds steady as Timothy exhales it, air rushing around his cock—and then Tim tips forward to lean his forehead against Damian’s abdomen.

He knows how worn down Timothy is. How desperate to rest. Even the small weight off his neck must be a boon. But it doesn’t escape his attention that Tim has taken Damian’s cock deeper to do it, all the way to the back of his mouth.

“You’ve earned it,” Damian says, when he’s sure his voice won’t shake. “You’ve been a good whore—been true to your nature—admitting when you were too weak to continue. Treated my fingers well...”

Tim reads it for the expectation it is. He resumes nursing at Damian’s cock, tongue undulating. After a moment’s hesitation, he rocks back and forth as well. It’s a timid pace, one Damian could easily force faster with the hand behind his head, but for now he allows Timothy to set the rhythm. To, inevitably, be responsible for his own assault.

“Good whore,” Damian croons.

A whimper escapes, followed by a tear. Overcome by the praise? Or desperately ashamed in the awareness of what he’s been brought down to?

Suddenly it feels imperative to know. Damian tugs at the blindfold with one hand, Timothy still sucking his cock, until it’s loose enough to droop. He pulls away from Tim’s agape mouth, holding his throbbing cock still at perfect angle. The loosened blindfold slithers down until it hangs around a collared neck.

Tim squints. Even the room’s dim light must be overwhelming after so long blinded. He looks up sooner than Damian expected, making unerring eye contact. The lengths of his shins are still locked to the ground, but Damian only has the one hand combed in his hair, and only lightly. He could yank away from it, pull back from the cock poised at his mouth, throw himself in the opposite direction, if only to make a point.

But those eyes, that pale blue, surrounded by the sore redness of tears... Not quite basking in the approval of his new master, but the shame is rife, the fear, the weariness—and the _submission_.

“Perfect,” Damian whispers, holding his gaze.

Tim vocally exhales, overwhelmed. Another tear slides down his cheek and his gaze falls, but he stays exactly where he is. Exactly where Damian wants him.

The first rule of League interrogations is to never stop _taking_. When you break through one wall, push, push, push until you find the next.

“You’ll want to get this wet,” Damian says, feeding his cock back into Tim’s mouth.

Timothy surely understands the implication, but there is no pause to digest. He takes it with instinctive acquiescence, understanding coalescing behind his eyes only after he’s resumed sucking. When Damian pushes against his throat, there is a moment of panicked tension, almost a protest—but the cock slides down his throat with a mere gurgle.

Damian rocks his hips, holding Tim steady, fucking his throat. When he thinks to pull his eyes away from Tim’s wet eyelashes and stretched raw lips to gaze at the mirror, he can see the bump of Tim’s throat around his cock in profile. He groans at the sight. Saliva pools and drips around his cock. 

Before Damian can do something foolish like come down Tim’s throat, he pulls all the way out. 

Tim’s eyelids flutter and pull up, finding Damian’s face again. Damian gives him an indulgent smile, stepping around to his side, opposite the mirror. His cock feels impossibly hard, bemoaning the sudden lack of a sheath, but Damian is not the one on his knees being broken into an obedient whore. He is Batman, with all the self-control and painstaking planning that implies. He can wait.

Leaving his cock jutting out of the black undersuit, he sinks into a crouch. Tim sags down with him, like he thinks he might finally be allowed to rest. Damian catches the bruised underside of his ass before it can settle onto his heels. He rubs across the bright red skin, still warm to the touch, not pressing painfully but not modulating the weight of his hand either.

“You took your punishment well,” Damian says. He’s wary of becoming too loose with the praise—but also aware that instinct was trained in by flawed mentors. Damian is already better than the League, will be better than the first Batman as well.

Humiliated doubt reads in Tim’s face. Damian isn’t lying—lesser men would have broken completely days ago—but Timothy learned under their father’s high expectations. He probably considers giving in at all an abject failure.

Damian smooths Tim’s hair with his free hand. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be a fighter anymore. Whores are allowed to grovel for mercy.”

Below, his other hand gropes over to the base of the vibrator. Tremors buzz up Damian’s wrist just holding it. It’s hard to imagine what Tim is going through by now. His restrained cock is a painful red in its ring.

“Do you want a break?” Damian says, like he needs to ask. A spark alights behind Tim’s eyes, desperate hope, still tempered with wariness of a trap. Damian keeps his expression open, holding to his word, _whores are allowed to grovel_. He rubs a finger across the vibrating base. “Do you think you deserve it?”

Tim trembles, almost nodding and then—stopping himself. With inching, skittish movement, he twists and tilts over into Damian’s chest. His forehead turns flat-on, so Damian can feel the heavy breaths through his shirt. That breath inhales, and then Tim releases a clear moan, neither pain nor pleasure. Begging. His back arches, ass tilted just that much more into Damian’s hand.

Damian turns off the vibrator.

The head nuzzling into his chest is all gratitude. Damian tugs the inert toy out, watching Tim’s red and wrecked hole squeeze closed behind it in the mirror. The lube he applied earlier is mostly rubbed off, but still slick where it remains. Damian rolls the vibrator carelessly away across the floor nonetheless. He’ll clean both later.

Tim can’t be surprised when Damian moves behind him to take its place. He just keeps leaning on his captor, like the strain of holding himself up would be worse than anything else Damian can inflict on him now.

His legs are still restrained right beside each other along the floor, so Damian straddles them with his own knees on either side. It will only make Tim tighter. Not that he _needs_ it; this close, their size difference is all the clearer. Tim, with the slim build of a runner or swimmer, though certainly not the height. Damian towering over him—with the anatomy to match.

Any distant worry that the vibrator may have broken Tim open _too_ thoroughly dies as Damian presses the head of his cock in. It’s a perfect tight fit, like Timothy was made for him. He was. He is; Damian will make it so.

He pulls Tim down, forcing his cock in deeper and deeper with the assistance of gravity as Tim whimpers. Damian expects more struggle from him, but all he has to fight against is Tim’s clenching rim and small size. Timothy himself lays feebly against Damian’s chest, panting in the open air, until he is tugged all the way to the base of Damian’s cock. He whines as his battered ass hits Damian’s lap, squeezing so tight Damian has to lean his face into Tim’s hair.

He reaches around, haphazardly unlocks the ring around Tim’s cock one-handed. Tim jerks at the slightest brush to his cock. Damian makes sure not to give him any more.

“Look at yourself,” he murmurs, nudging Tim’s head aside.

There’s a sharp inhalation when Tim spots himself in the mirror. The debauched, shaky, weak thing that is left of him; sweat and tears, injuries of his own making, and most importantly the sign of his arousal. The rivulet of blood, that sign of his attempt at resistance, is already wearing away, smudged on his thigh by his own grasping fingers, dried and flaking off the back of his hand. It’s far from the crimson lifeblood it once was, fragile and delicate and likely to crack apart at any moment. Quite like its creator.

Damian rubs a single knuckle up his cock, making Tim’s hips buck desperately after. His face flushes, too quick to be anything but embarrassment. Damian chuckles in his ear.

“You were _made_ for this,” he whispers. And then, though he rarely employs such crass phrasing: “Made to be _fucked_. Look at how happy you are with a cock up your ass. All you can think about is coming and being filled.”

Tim’s eyes haven’t left his own reflection. He gives no indication he’s even heard.

Damian grinds into him. That, at least, draws a gasp. He grabs the underside of Tim’s jaw, lifting it off his chest. “Listen to me.”

Tim makes a weak little sound, squeezing his eyes shut. His chin jerks against the grip in a nod. When Damian loosens his hand, Tim ducks into it, stretched lip smearing against the pointer finger. Trying to take it in, Damian realizes; to repeat the gesture that mollified him earlier.

“Good little whore,” he breathes, genuinely affectionate.

He swallows, takes stock. Tim’s will, at least for tonight, seems entirely broken. Damian can’t say what tomorrow will bring, but he’s never one to pass up an opportunity. His younger brother’s full weight rests on him in only boneless slump, only Timothy’s head lifted.

“You’re not even strong enough to lift yourself, are you?”

Tim’s thighs tremble and strain. Damian thinks he’s trying it, though it’s hard to be sure. He doesn’t get anywhere. In the mirror’s reflection, his eyes are shiny with tears again.

“But you will be good,” Damian says. “You don’t want another punishment. You want a reward. Even if you can’t ride me.”

A shaky breath in, and then those tears fall as Tim nods. Damian hangs onto his chin through the motion, pointer finger still laid along Tim’s bottom lip.

“That’s okay. I’ll be strong for you. And you can be good for me.”

Damian unclasps the gag. This he doesn’t toss away, setting it gently to the side in case he needs it back. Tim’s jaw closes with a grateful, hoarse moan, works to either side in an attempt to stretch, clenches and releases, but he doesn’t try to speak. 

When two fingers tap against his lips, Tim just parts them to let him in, obediently sucks the digits.

Damian fucks him.

The harness gives him a steadier grip than Tim’s sweat-slicked skin, yanking the boy up and down his cock. He’s not gentle about it. It has to be a little rough, to fight against the friction. It’s pleasing to go fast, for purely selfish reasons. Tim groans around the fingers in his mouth, staccato “ _nh—nh_ —” every time Damian yanks him back down, welts from the belt impacting hips. But he never stops sucking.

After all the excitement, the almost blowjob, Damian is too wound up to last long. Soon enough, he feels his orgasm rises.

“Do you want your reward now?” he pants, pulling his hand from Tim’s mouth to hover over his cock instead. If Damian is wound up, Tim’s desire must be indescribable.

“Pl—ee—” Tim flinches at his own cracking voice. Damian doesn’t stop pounding as he catches his breath, swallows to try again. It comes out more comprehensible this time, if no less wrecked: “Please.”

“Please what?” Damian says.

 _Please let me come_ , he expects, or, _please give me my reward_. Perhaps a desperate sob for mercy, effective even without words. It turns out some part of Tim’s clever mind does still survive, that part that always knows the right answer even before Damian:

“Please, Batman.”

Damian comes, thrusting deep, groaning his pleasure into Tim’s shoulders. A single stroke to the boy’s cock sets him off as well, and the pulsing of his passage milks Damian’s orgasm out. It takes a minute to come back to himself, gripping around Tim’s chest and onto the harness to keep him close.

His breath comes heavy, but repetition is important to a lesson, even if it comes out as a whisper: “ _Good whore_.”

Tim’s eyes flutter shut. He doesn’t stir in Damian’s grasp, and Damian doesn’t prod him to respond. Tim has earned his rest at last.

There will be no usurpation this time.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://writerseven.tumblr.com)


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